


The Talons of a Flightless Bird

by onepieceofharry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Culture, Fluff, M/M, Mystery, Politics, Traditions, Worldbuilding, altered magic system, inherent dubcon of trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onepieceofharry/pseuds/onepieceofharry
Summary: Following a decades long war the Malfoy kingdom must make allies with those they'd tried to eradicate, or face that fate themselves. What seemed impossible somehow was anything but, as in only a handful of months the Malfoy heir was betrothed to his Royal Majesty the King, Harry James Potter. Yet the differences between the Potter and Malfoy kingdoms are stark, and as the two unlikely spouses could tell you, full of all these fucking thorns.A drarry medieval fantasy AU ft. arranged marriage
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes before we get started:
> 
> 1\. There is no magic in this universe *wink* in the regard that magic is a lost art that no one believes is real yadda yadda usual medieval au stuff
> 
> 2\. This is going to feature a Lot of lore, because a lot of the tension comes from the disparity in culture between the two
> 
> 3\. There will be no, uh, game of thrones-esque non-con or anything of the like, but there will be discussions around it so...
> 
> tw for: discussions of non-con (as a concept), gore (in history), violence, and any other triggers associated with the arranged marriage trope.
> 
> That being said I hope you all enjoy what has been an extremely fun thing to write.

The silk slid smoothly over his skin, the familiar luxury doing nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders or pounding in his heart. The colours of the robes only exacerbated it; a blood red chest piece over the customary white of the occasion, trailing down to act as a partial tunic which cinched at the waist and ended at his thighs where white trousers began. These were not the colours of his kingdom, not the colours Draco grew up wearing. Over the seamtress’ shoulders he inspected the outfit in the mirror, desperately seeking out the small concession he knew were there. 

The sky blue of his house could be seen on the sleeves in such a way that they didn’t intrude on the centerpiece. Mere threads of his blue trailed into a slopping design at the edge of his sleeves, elaborate and true to the symbols of Malfoy, but so pale they were almost lost among the white of tradition. Black was the colour usually worn in his country, acting as perfect contrast to the quicksilver and unsuspecting colour that made up his house. Blue on black. 

Draco clenched his jaw and let his neck bend for just a moment before springing back up proudly. His boots were black. This was not a negotiated concession, this was something he was trying to get away with. A small act of defiance the day of.

There was blue in other areas as well; on the clasps, small panels in the sides (almost completely covered by the tunic) and other such things, but Draco could barely stomach to look at them. The colour clashed with the red of his soon-to-be husband’s house, turning his beloved blue into an almost grey colour, sucking the life out of it and making it seem like a dead husk next to the bright crimson. It felt like a perverse foreshadowing to the marriage Draco was about to enter into; Potter turning Draco into something other, taking all that was special about him and draining it.

“You look very handsome, dear.”

Draco swallowed down his bile and spared his mother a smile. It stretched his skin uncomfortably and Draco already felt exhausted, imagining the next few hours where he’d have to muster a smile for those much less deserving than his mother.

“I’d damn say so myself,” the seamstress muttered, backing up to take in Draco’s full attire. Draco almost sneered at the woman but collected himself.

Mother hummed, saying nothing but Draco watched as she glided up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder and meeting his eyes in the mirror. Ah, he hadn’t hid his reaction well enough. That mix of concern and scorn was something only Narcissa Malfoy could accomplish. 

“Out of the way, my lady,” the seamstress waved. Draco’s jaw clenched tighter at the disrespect. Mother rolled her eyes.

The final piece to his outfit was the snow white cape attached at the shoulders with metal links. The cloth was heavy, a testament to the length that the seamstress unfurled behind him. The fabric was delicate, but it felt like it could stretch the whole length of the great hall. Draco hoped it wouldn’t.

A flash of red had Draco closing his eyes. A phoenix embroidered in Potter colours stretched the length of the cape, the bird beginning at Draco’s shoulders and the trail of wings flowing into flame the further down it went. It was the ancient symbol of the house of Potter, but it rang more potent with the current state of the lands than it ever had before. That a Malfoy should wear this creature spoke leagues. Draco hated it.

A knock on the door. “My Prince?”

Pansy never addressed him by his title, but today was such an occasion for formalities. 

“It’s time.”

Pansy had no compulsion to dress in foreign colours; her gown the black customary of the Malfoy kingdom with blue and violet accents. She looked absolutely distinguished. Draco looked away.

***

“There’s still time.”

Harry smiled sadly, fiddling with the gold bands he’d been halfway coerced into wearing. 

Hermione huffed, organizing the parchment in front of her in order of importance. Despite her undying quest to keep Harry unwed she’d dressed for the occasion, a simple pink gown worn with red accents. Her hair was another matter, strewn about as she repeatedly scratched her head. Normally Harry would be in the same state, but through tenacity (or, Harry suspected, witchcraft) Madam Malkin had tamed his hair into something presentable.

She was currently on the other end of the old castle tending to his… betrothed. 

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” Hermione muttered, and to Harry’s everlasting horror, tears welled up in her eyes. “There are other ways.”

“Oh, come on, ‘Mione,” Harry said kindly, waving away her concern. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Hermione stared doubtfully.

“So I’ll have to make nice with people who had tried to have me killed. It’s not like I wouldn’t have had to do that anyways.” Harry shrugged then grinned, gesturing at his regal robes. “Perks of being king.” 

Hermione grimaced. “I have no issues with diplomacy. I have issues with you sacrificing your personal life in the name of duty.”

“Whoever I married would never have been part of my ‘personal life’ and you know it.”

Hermione growled. “And just what do you mean by that? Are you seriously telling me you always intended to marry for political reasons? You?”

“I’m saying that even if I married for love the arrangement would have become political almost immediately. Because I am a king.” Harry paused. “And just what do you mean by _you_?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to smile sadly, getting to her feet and abandoning the papers at the writing desk. “You’re a romantic, Harry,” she said, fiddling with his collar when she got close, “to have to commit to someone you don’t love? I just don’t think you’ve understood how much it will hurt you.”

“What I know,” Harry began, taking Hermione’s hand in his, “is that if I do this I spare others from petty bloodshed. I spare _my people_ from any further war. They’ve been through enough already.”

Hermione pursed her lips, but couldn’t object. The war, _the_ war that had taken his parents and his throne away from him was one of the bloodiest and longest wars ever to known history. When Voldemort had killed both King and Queen of the Potter kingdom Harry had just been one year old and stowed away by the stablemaster, ferried across his kingdom to be raised the joined forces of those that would oppose Voldemort’s dominion. Harry had grown into an excellent fighter and, though it pained him to admit his merits, an inspirational leader. Under his command Voldemort fell and his decades long conquest ended. It was thought only natural that Harry would ascend to the throne, but the reality of post-war politics meant that Harry needed to project stability and strength to the people who had lived under Voldemort’s rule. He needed to heed tradition, and he needed another who bore his name.

Hermione pulled away shakily. “Well, if you insist on it…” Harry nodded. “Then you should finish getting ready.”

Stepping in as maidservant (a position far below her actual stature) Hermione grabbed his ruby encrusted sword still in its sheath and handed it to him, letting Harry attach it to his waist. Next came the, uh, resplendent red cape that Hermione struggled to carry, giving Harry a new admiration for the servants that bore the skill to do such a thing. He wasn’t exactly sure why Hermione felt the need to dress him but he didn’t want to protest or say the wrong thing and have her actually burst into tears. She’d settled a bit with the chore, the shakiness gone out of her limbs, so Harry said nothing.

“Last thing,” she muttered under her breath, and Harry held his as she took in hand his father’s crown and stood in front of him patiently.

Made of pure gold, the crown spun a modest height with poised and angular points that resembled a stag’s antlers. The peaks pointed forward, twisting along the circle of the crown to gather at the front where some peaks twisted up like they were ready to skewer and enemy, while others just twisted, creating a nest-like center where it hosted a large blood-red jewel.

Harry gave it a sad look, but knelt down to accept the crown. It had been his father’s, and he’d been wearing it the day Voldemort had killed him. It had been revealed that when they’d been killed Voldemort had ordered their bodies be burnt to ash, which they had, but the crown had stayed intact. It hadn’t melted or lost even an inch of its intricate shape. Voldemort had taken the crown as a trophy, but when he’d been overthrown the foot-soldiers had discovered the crown and brought it back. It would have brought them great fortune if they’d sold it, but the peasant army had brought it back to Harry.

He’d only had two occasions to wear it so far; his coronation and the diplomatic meetings that went into creating this whole affair.

Harry felt Hermione settle the metal on his head and step back. He rose.

“So?” he said, striking a pose and pulling his face into the cheeky grin he knew she couldn’t stand, “How do I look?”

Hermione eyed him up and down. “Kingly.” And then to his immense horror, she bundled up her skirt and sunk down into a low curtsy.

“Oh, ‘Mione, please,” he begged, but he could tell the gesture was genuine and not just a tease. It was so much harder to deal with the emotion rising in his throat when she was earnest like this.

The spell was thankfully broken easily when she rose and frowned at him, leaning over to pinch the fat on his back. “Straighten your back.”

Harry yelped and pushed her away when a voice came from the doorway. “Well, don’t you look dashing.”

Ron also looked quite dashing in his dark blue robes (slightly out of style, but his mother had made him wear them) but Harry new he was…a sight.

“Ron!” Hermione gasped and ran to his side, getting caught up in one of his best friend’s famous hugs.

“Sorry ‘Mione,” Ron said, regretfully letting her go, “no time for long hello’s. It’s time.”

The nerves he’d been doing such an excellent job at avoiding flared brightly up his spine before Harry shoved them back down again, folding imaginary creases down his robes.

“Oi! You lot!” Ron called out behind him to the servants fluttering outside the room, no doubt gossiping. Harry sent them an apologetic smile when they re-entered and grabbed at his cape to help him walk. He’d sent them out when Hermione started getting a bit too maudlin.

The castle was ancient and massive; under renovations as it had suffered greatly under Voldemort’s occupation of his lands. The corridor he currently he walked down was mostly finished as the stone stood in neat patterns and tapestries hung proudly on the walls. All the corridors where guests would be staying as well as their chambers had been restored almost fully, but the signs of the recent rushed renovations could be seen if Harry looked hard enough. Scuff marks in corners, creases in the tapestries. Harry didn’t care for that sort of thing, which is why his nerves flared brightly once again. If he, who couldn’t care less about the fiddly details, could see such things then surely his guests would notice as well.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Ron said suddenly from his side, “the bloke is pretty.”

Hermione scowled, and made sure Ron noticed her scowl from where she walked on his other side. “Seriously, Ronald?”

“No, he’s right. It does make me feel better.” Harry shot her a grin. “You know how terribly superficial I am.”

Both his friends cracked smiled, and Harry let it ease his anxiety. Yes, he hadn’t actually met his betrothed and that was, well, his major point of nervousness. Harry liked to think he was good at reading people, and even if they’d just met for five minutes he would feel much less stress going into this thing. Unfortunately it had all just been advisor's and diplomats he’d been able to meet face-to-face, with correspondence from Lucius Malfoy being done through letters. He hadn’t shared a letter with his son.

_Not even a letter_ , Harry thought, and swallowed.

Lucius’ son, well, Harry didn’t know him but he knew a lot of conflicting opinions. He’d spent almost his entire life holed up in his father’s castle, starkly contrasting Harry’s life of constant war. He was well-read and, to quote Lucius, a good son. But, uh, other opinions of those that had served in the Malfoy castle weren’t as charitable, with the best thing Harry could wring from them simply being “he is not as bad as Lucius.” 

Draco Malfoy. Well, he wouldn’t be a Malfoy for very long now. Draco Malfoy Potter. It had been decided, through the tedious and numerous meetings Harry had suffered through, that Draco would keep his blood family’s name as a middle name, but his true house and allegiance would be Potter. He would be a Potter. The first new Potter in over two decades.

As they neared the great hall his two friends quietly left him to enter first and take their seats, the titters Harry heard from beyond the door dying when they entered and a respectful hush took its place. The servants fanned his cape out behind him then bowed and left, turning to the adjacent stairs where they would watch the ceremony from the balcony above with the other common folk. The nobility would be on the ground floor with his friends taking a place of honour near the front. 

“All rise for his Royal Majesty the King; Harry James Potter!”

Harry straightened his back, the phantom pain of Hermione’s pinch twinging, and remembered how they’d rehearsed it. Do not frown, but do not smile either. Walk slowly and deliberately. There will be bowing, and he’s just going to have to suffer through it. 

And they did bow. As he passed they fell in waves, lowering their heads in a respect that made his insides squirm, but gave him a reprieve to lift his head just momentarily to the ceiling of the great hall. The hall itself was a lovely, if bland, light grey stone that supported itself with columns interspersed where the rows of guests sat. Of course, it was lavishly decorated but somehow all the flowers and ribbons couldn’t hold a candle to the ceiling. It was a twisting symmetry of carved stone and stained glass, leaving huge swaths of natural light into the hall; colours dancing in geometric patterns on the walls no matter where you turned. The stone running in between the glass had the Potter history carved into it, with marriages and treaties and all other notable periods in history permanently etched above their heads. The fire that had burned the corpses of Voldemort’s conquest had happened in this hall, and the ash had coated the ceiling, hiding the beauty beneath for decades. While much of his family’s history had been lost with book burnings and the destruction of monuments, the ultimate record had survived. Beneath his parents ashes.

Harry wondered, as he reached the raised podium and turned to face the room, if they would add this occasion to the stone. Then he remembered that he was the one who would have to make that decision.

All thoughts to this ended when the court marshal cried; “Announcing his Highness Prince Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

The doors of the great hall opened once more and Harry swallowed. Well, Ron wasn’t one for lying.

Draco was beautiful.

***

Etiquette lessons from the age of four made Draco perfect for his role. Poised and elegant, he carefully didn’t react to the sight of his future husband, though every inch of him wanted to spit a few uncharitable words.

Where Draco had iron clasps, Potter had gold. And gold. And more gold. Gold bands, gold in his hair, gold crown. His outfit was almost a mirror image to Draco’s but it had been completely over-exaggerated, with more elaborate designs in the embroidery and baubles hanging off the tunic. His cape was entirely red to Draco’s white, and the phoenix design white and gold to contrast. 

Inadequate, that’s how Draco felt next to such pageantry. Understated. _Lesser._

While Potter carried his infamous sword at his belt, Draco carried the ceremonial bit of cloth that would bind Potter and him together, a practice they certainly did not do at Malfoy weddings. To be fair, there was a lot to this affair that was just not done on Malfoy soil. Letting the riffraff in to gawk being the main one.

Draco’s foot almost stepped on Potter’s cape but he caught himself just in time, his heart rate picking up at the close blunder.

_Too close_ , Draco thought as he made his way up the podium, only to think it again when Potter extended his hand for him to take. _Too close._

Draco took it.

The old man in charge of leading the ceremony took the cloth Draco had carried up the aisle and Draco settled in, knowing his part would be much later in the ceremony. Apparently Potter weddings meant one long droning speech about history and the meaning of life. Draco tuned it out.

Instead he let himself search the crowd for his mother, finding her only two rows back from the front. A high honour, considering the amount of dignitaries in attendance. Pansy would be almost near the very back of the room and Draco regretted not looking for her on his way in. His mother caught his eye, and in that special way of hers she both scolded him to focus and commiserated with him. But Potter’s hand was just a bit too warm and the hall, despite the crowd, a bit too cold. 

“…and with new vows, new history is born.”

Respectful silence followed the end of the old man’s speech and for the first time Draco let himself meet Potter’s eyes, both of them sharing an understanding that they were to speak next.

Potter spoke first. “To join my house, to act as a Potter in all grace and duty, you must rescind all prior loyalties. Do you accept?”

_Fuck_ no. “I do.”

The old man spoke again, this time only to him. “Do you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, agree to relinquish all titles associated with the Malfoy line? Do you, of sound mind and clear conscience, abandon your father’s name? Do you agree to bear the name Malfoy only as a blood-honour, and instead swear yourself to the Potter line?”

Draco had known, had been warned over and over again as to what was being asked of him. He would have to abandon his middle name, the name of his father, in order to be sworn into Potter’s house. His father had done too much in the war, had offended too many people. He hadn’t even been allowed to come to his son’s wedding, though that had not been overtly discussed. Draco was allowed to bear the name Malfoy as a compromise to abandoning Lucius.

“I do.”

_Clear conscience my arse._

The old man hummed. “Then we can begin.”

Facing the crowd, Potter let go of his hand to hold his fist ahead of him, with Draco mirroring him. The old man stepped between them with the cloth Draco had carried in; a long strip of simple white silk. The crowd witnessed as the man wrapped the cloth first around Draco’s wrist, winding it three times around until his arm felt heavy, then doing the same to Potter, leaving a few feet of silk to float beneath their raised arms. 

Potter spoke first. Again. 

“In the witness of my allies and my people, I bind myself to thee, Draco Malfoy, and give you my name and my house in offering. I so swear to honour you as my first and only husband, to serve you as a husband should, and to protect you with all the might I carry within my breast. To these things, I swear.”

An older woman with red hair was quietly sobbing, pressing a tissue to her eyes as Potter spoke. In fact, as his words rang out across the hall, Draco could spot a number of wet-eyes and swoons from the crowd.

“In the presence of witnesses, I bind myself to thee, Harry James Potter, and I accept your name and your house onto my life. I swear to honour you as my first and only husband, to serve you as a husband should, and to protect you with all the courage I carry in my lungs. To these things, I swear.”

Horrifically, his mother let a few tears shed before swiping quickly and returning to composure.

“I witness the binding,” the old man spoke, “and I declare it true.” At his words Draco and Potter reached out for each other’s hands once more, the small chain of fabric sagging beneath their clasped hands.

Draco heard the man shuffle around before coming up behind him. Draco tensed, and felt as Potter tensed next to him. 

“Kneel.”

Draco knelt, keeping his hand in Potter’s.

“From this day onward,” the old man spoke to the crowd from behind Draco, “this man will be known as his Royal Highness Draco Malfoy Potter, and be granted the title of Prince Consort, legitimate husband to his Royal Majesty the King Harry James Potter!”

And just like that, Draco would never be a king.

A crown was placed on his head, smaller, with less height than the one Potter wore and without the jewel centerpiece, but the same style and colour of gold. 

Potter’s hand tensed in a way Draco knew was made to help him rise to his feet. Draco rose under his own power.

As soon as he was on his feet the cheering started, with the nobility on the ground applauding respectfully while the commoners above yelled their support in a gauche manner. Hankies started to rain down from above as commoners waved them, eventually throwing them down below in a confetti of colour. The nobles on the ground were on their feet, watching as he and Potter weathered the attention.

_Harry, I suppose_ , Draco thought, _I’m a Potter now too._

Doors opened from behind them, the opposite end from the entrance to the great hall they’d used. Sunlight illuminated them and for just a moment Draco let himself relish the picture they made, halo’d by the light coming in from behind them. 

Harry’s thumb ran over his hand and only good breeding kept Draco from jumping out of his skin. He smiled apologetically and then gestured at their bound hands.

Ah.

With their hands bound the way they were, one of them would have to switch to the other side in order for them not to be reaching over their bodies. Of course Draco would have to be the one to do it.

This specific custom had all been explained to him beforehand of course, but faced with the reality of the next step killed any joy he might have found in his aesthetic. 

Harry raised his cloak and Draco ignored the pink that rose in his cheeks as he ducked underneath it, quickly coming out the other side and cursing uncouth barbarian traditions that, if only for a moment, had Draco pressed between the stifling heat of Harry’s back and his cape. Harry had hopped over the slack of the silk and before anyone knew the wiser they had righted themselves and started their trek outside of the great hall to the open garden, soon to be followed by everyone inside.

Risking a glance back Draco tried to search out his mother, only to scowl as he saw how Harry’s cape crossed over his own, symbolic of their union as the practice had obviously intended. Harry’s red cape was on top and, stoking the fires of Draco’s inferiority, it was noticeably longer.

Bastards.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for expectations of dub con. Basically yall know the messed up wedding rituals usually present in medieval stories? A lot of those things will be addressed this chapter so if you have any squicks or triggers be warned.

_Well, it could be worse._

That wasn’t entirely fair, if Harry was being honest. By all accounts the ceremony had been a smashing success. No one had tripped or fallen in any undignified way, no one had stuttered or mumbled their vows, and there had been no grand interruptions in an attempt to protect Harry from the evils of a political marriage. Ron, who had the dubious honour of sitting beside him at the head table, was even making an effort to express just how moved the crowd was by Harry’s voice.

“You should have seen it, mate.” Ron rolled his eyes then pressed a hand to his head in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, our king,” he said in a pitched voice, “so noble, so gallant is he. His words bring tears to the eyes of even the coldest men!”

“I’m begging you here,” Harry scowled, “genuinely begging you to stop.”

Ron cackled. “I’m just saying! If you ever need a back-up army look no further than the peasant women. I daresay all of them would gladly give up their lives just to hear you speak.”

Since begging was obviously not working Harry slid a prime cut of roast bird off his plate and onto Ron’s. Ron looked at him like he’d hung the stars.

“Oh, shut it.”

The banquet was held outside, something done against tradition but the ballroom was still in disrepair. The head table was one long horseshoe-like table where Harry sat right in the center. It surrounded a vast swath of polished wood flooring, obscuring the grass beneath it and acting as a makeshift dance floor. Two separate bands were hired to perform, one reasonably close to the head table and the other much farther down, beyond the wooden dance floor to a wide open area of just grass where the common-folk danced. Though Harry hated the segregated set-up on principle, there was no rule enforced whether peasants could dance on the wooden floor or vice-versa, it was just how things seemed to work out. 

Beyond the head table were individual circular ones, each with a lavish centerpiece and luxuries in the hope that those who had to sit at them wouldn’t take offense that they hadn’t made the cut to sit at the head table. Hermione was at one of those tables; her parents were physicians and she herself was indispensable to him, but when there was foreign royalty you had to always show them the highest regard.

Ron was, thank the stars, royalty. He was fifth in line for the throne and his kingdom had struggled economically under Voldemort’s reign, but he was royalty nonetheless. Next to him sat his mother and father, King and Queen, and beyond flowed those of royal (or noble) blood who had fought next to him in the war. Those who hadn’t had such an active role sat on the other end of the horseshoe, with both those who had stayed neutral and those whose borders were so far removed from Harry’s kingdom that sending aide would have cost five times as much as anyone else in the Upper Lands. And of course there were those who were embroiled in their own wars as well.

The point was that there was no ill-will. They had found a seat at the table and new connections could be forged.

Then, of course, there was his husband.

Harry flexed his left hand from where it rested on the table, tied to the pale hand only a few inches away. There was enough slack in the binding for them to each comfortably eat their meals and, well, apparently not talk. Just next to Draco sat his mother, a gesture Harry had hoped would act as a sort of peace offering. Instead, Draco was well and truly facing away from him, letting his mother chat to him about gossip Harry had no interest in.

And chat _to_ him was the right word, as Draco didn’t really speak. He simply hummed and dropped an “oh?” here or there to keep his mother talking, but never engaged. And he certainly didn’t talk to Harry. 

Which was why Harry wasn’t feeling exactly cheered by the relative success of the ceremony. Draco was, well he was beautiful of course, and Harry got the sense that Draco knew it. He was poised and elegant and regal in a way Harry feared he’d never master. Where Harry had grown up in war camps, acting as a soldier from as young as eleven and traveling from place to place without any stability, Draco had grown up a prince. He’d grown up studied and sheltered and loved, if how his mother traced a comforting hand down his arm was any indication. He was starkly slender compared to Harry’s build, even though his physique was obviously masculine. From the few moments he’d held his husband’s hand it was obvious that he’d never truly trained in combat or done any hard labour, making Harry just a bit self-conscious of his own callouses. 

So he was sheltered and waited upon; Harry already knew this, had already known this before they’d gotten married. It made sense that he wasn’t pleased about the arrangement, that he was tense and quiet beside him. Then why did Harry feel so personally about it? Harry himself had felt twisted up about the whole affair, so of course someone with less experience with…life would feel even more nervous. 

A lifetime of silences and quietly suffering his company stared him down. Harry swallowed.

“Your Majesty?” his court marshal asked, almost begged, from over his shoulder, “shall we continue with the gifts?”

Harry scowled but waved him on. Receiving wedding gifts was the absolute worst part of this whole affair. Harry had called for a break at least twice already, and the sun was going down. No wonder his court marshal was stressed.

A young woman approached wearing much darker colours than what was considered fashionable, but the more interesting thing was how Draco stiffened, giving his undivided attention for the first time that evening.

“Hello,” she said, sinking into a low curtsy before rising swiftly, “may I approach?” 

Harry hesitated, glancing between his husband and the woman. “You may.”

“Excellent,” she replied, and Harry raised an eyebrow at the boldness. Seeing as he’d already seen close to a hundred gifts today she had to be a lesser noble, the kind of people who typically spoke very carefully when addressing royalty.

She approached, waving a servant girl to follow behind her. 

“I am Pansy of Parkinson house, and I bear two gifts, one for each spouse.”

Harry cringed internally, one extra gift more than planned. Great.

The servant girl approached first, holding a massive broadsword in its sheath. Already Harry could tell that it was lovingly crafted and carried small jewels around the hilt, if a bit plain in design.

“For his Majesty the King, I give you the finest weapon ever forged in the Parkinson smithy. May it serve you well.”

Harry regarded the sword politely, though not pulling it from its sheath. He’d hadn’t been gifted a sword yet at all today, and most knew why. 

“A lovely gift, but I’m afraid I couldn’t part with my own sword for very long,” he said, patting his hip.

“Ah,” Parkinson replied, a bit disinterested, “a pity. I hope you will find a good home for it.”

Harry nodded slowly, gesturing for a court servant to take the gift off his hands. With barely a pause Parkinson turned to Draco and dipped her hand into her own pocket. Harry tensed, but a small dagger was quickly extracted and presented to Draco by Parkinson herself, her servant cautiously waiting behind her. 

Draco, for his part, reached for the gift, tightening the binding on Harry’s own wrist. Again, the gift was extravagant and jewel encrusted. Draco pulled the blade from the sheath and took a breath at the pattern the blade sported; spots and swirls of contrasting shades of grey, almost like the knife had been dipped in a stream and left to dry. 

Draco looked up into Parkinson’s eyes, and Harry only just then realized they must know each other.

“A loving reminder,” she said as she curtsied once again, “that a leopard can’t change its spots.”

An unspoken message passed between them, leaving Harry warily eyeing the dagger. Before he could comment Parkinson was on her way and Draco was sheathing the blade once more, but instead of sending it off with the rest of the gifts he slid it into his belt.

“Well,” Ron chuckled awkwardly, “that was interesting.”

Harry ignored him, taking advantage of how his husband had turned to watch her leave by gently tapping his wrist. “Do you know her?”

He shook his head, and Harry almost had half a mind to call her back to explain herself (because that had been a threat, hadn’t it?) when Draco clarified: “She’s my best friend. She’s just the absolute worst best friend in the whole world.”

The levity almost knocked him over, and Harry’s mood instantly improved. “So she was just…?”

“Being dramatic,” Draco deadpanned, “I don’t think she’s even capable of being anything but.”

“Ah,” Harry said wryly, “I have a few friends like that.”

For the first time that night Draco met his eyes voluntarily, sharing a brief moment of understanding before the circumstances seemed to catch up to him, forcing Draco to avert his eyes.

Harry bit back a sigh, watching as Draco turned once again to his mother and accept her hand on his arm with little fuss. Hilariously, Harry did the same when Ron pat his shoulder.

***

With every inch the sun disappeared behind the horizon Draco tensed, growing steadily stiffer until he was practically jittering with nervous energy. His mother was doing everything she could to calm him down but her comforting gestures only made what came next more real, more pressing. It almost felt like she was grieving.

Frustration flared, mixing with his fear and almost, _almost_ bringing tears to his eyes. He shouldn’t be here. Draco was bred and raised to become the monarch of his own kingdom, with his own wife to take his name. This, this _farce_ may be a political miracle but it had stolen everything Draco had been promised from birth, and it left him with duties and expectations he didn’t know how to handle.

His mother had gone through the same, he knew, and leaned into her side just a bit more. She had been a Black daughter, a perfect match for his father as the kingdoms were direct neighbors. It made it worse of course, knowing that his mother felt the need to comfort him. It confirmed his suspicions that Draco was going to hate the coming night, that what laid in store for him was every bit as awful as Draco could imagine (and perhaps gave him a less-than-charitable thought or tow towards his own father). Harry had been in a war his entire life, and Draco wasn’t naive to the coping mechanisms his lot had used. Years at war, going from place to place had spread a reputation of the western coalition forces done in the name of Potter, a reputation built on bravery and honour and all that drivel, but also a reputation for, ugh, _free love_. Many a brothel had stories of Harry’s brothers (and sisters he supposed, what a backwards culture) in arms and not all of them were particularly flattering. Who knew what Harry would expect from him tonight.

Draco breathed out shakily, forcing calm. _Sex_ , he was afraid of sex.

If everything had gone according to plan Draco wouldn’t have had anything to fear. Well, he probably would have been self-conscious and nervous of course, but it would have been his job _have_ the expectations, not sit and stew and wonder about the sexual proclivities of this brutish culture. 

Harry sighed next to him and Draco just about jumped out of his skin, his mother’s hand flying to his knee to stall him. 

Her attempts didn’t quite work considering Harry had taken his hand, rising to his feet and gesturing expectantly. Draco rose to his feet and his mother’s hand fell off his knee.

The bands stopped playing and a silence went over the crowd. Obviously everyone had been waiting for this moment. Draco wanted to disappear at the eyes flickering over to him, knowing looks and smirks being exchanged.

“Thank you all for coming to share in this joyous occasion,” Harry began, and Draco couldn’t hide his flinch. “With all the suffering and strife that we’ve fought through such an occasion is a new beginning, and I hope all of you continue to find joy in the feast and entertainment provided. Unfortunately” -he was grinning despite his words- “we have reached the part of the evening where my new husband and I must say goodbye. Thank you all again and please don’t stop the festivities on our account.” Harry raised their bound hands. Somehow Draco mustered a polite smile. “Good night!”

The audience clapped and before Draco knew it he was gliding past the crowd, a procession of servants behind them to carry their capes. The made their way back into the castle through the great hall, Harry’s hand in his acting as a guide to his steps. Instead of heading back to the small chamber he’d been granted the night before, they turned left up a winding staircase, small windows along the climb telling Draco they were ascending one of the turrets the castle hosted. Most likely the tallest one, if Potter tradition matched Malfoy in this regard. 

“Ah, your Majesty,” a servant girl spoke from behind them, earning glares from her cohorts, “would you like us to relieve you of your capes?”

Harry seemed surprised before a smile stretched his face. “Oh, yes please.”

Draco agreed with the sentiment, but quietly. They’d never worn such a ridiculous piece of clothing in his kingdom and for the life of him he couldn’t understand the appeal. The servants unclasped the fabrics from both of them, carefully folding them until little squares remained. Then, to Draco’s horror, all four of them turned on their heels left, with nothing but a quick bow to signal their leaving. 

They were alone.

“Come on,” Harry said, pulling at Draco’s hand and now he realized they’d been stopped because the entrance to the room was directly in front of them, Harry confidently taking hold of the handle and almost propelling Draco inward with how eager he seemed.

_Eager?_

Harry quickly closed the door and locked it, sighing something awfully fierce as he dragged Draco over to a large vanity. With nary a word Harry released his hand, instead busying himself with removing his crown and shaking out the bits of gold from his hair. Draco couldn’t move, feeling rushed and disregarded. His inaction really wasn’t helping any, as Harry had already moved on to the clasp in his boots, not wasting any time.

So; this was it then. 

Draco swallowed thickly, then reached up and took off his crown, getting his first good look at the thing he’d worn for the last few hours. It was as described to him. It had most likely belonged to the late Potter Queen. Had she been where Draco was now? Uncertain and distanced from the man who would soon bed her? Had James Potter been more of a romantic than Harry was? Or had he done the exact same, utilitarian swiftness to get their clothes off as quickly as possible.

“We’re going to have to wear our robes to bed,” Harry said from behind a hand towel. Apparently the servants had prepared the room beforehand, a detail Draco should have noticed by the lit candles. Had they prepared…other things? How two men got on was as foreign to Draco as sex with a woman would be, but you needed…extra things, right?

Harry was stripping off the tunic that rested over his robes and with a start Draco realized how much he’d lagged behind. Toeing off his shoes, Draco’s hands went to his belt where he froze at the feel of Pansy’s dagger. 

“Are you alright?” Harry asked

“I-” He couldn’t breathe. “Yes.”

Harry rubbed behind his neck. “I know this will be, uh, awkward, “ he gestured with his still bound hand, “but it’s just for tonight.”

Draco’s neck snapped with how quickly he turned. “Excuse me?” he asked, the words finding a horrific meaning in his skull.

Somehow, in all his anxiety over the day and subsequent night Draco had never considered the future beyond it. Maybe subconsciously he’d never thought he’d get this far, or that the person who became a Potter would no longer be Draco. The future had been disconnected from him, a would-be meant for someone else, but with Potter’s one comment somehow a worse horror came to him: a husband who didn’t touch him, didn’t talk to him, didn’t include him in his life. His husband would take other lovers to satisfy him, either out of some misplaced idea of Draco’s virtue or just because he simply wasn’t attractive enough. Draco would have no one on his side in these foreign lands and no purpose to occupy himself with.

For all his horror towards what sex between them would be like, he never considered that it might be the _only_ night his husband would bed him.

_But he’d said as much, hadn’t he?_

Harry tipped his head and watched him curiously. “Well,” he chuckled, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to do this every night.”

Draco clenched his jaw, hands flying through the rest of his clasps. “You don’t know that.”

“Er,” Harry intelligently and Draco cursed inwardly. Now, of all moments, was not the time to be combative. And _now_ , of all bloody moments, was not the time to campaign for his husband’s attention. They hadn’t slept together yet. Draco might hate the act all-together and be glad to have the nightly ritual erased from his social calendar. In fact he _probably would_ considering how much Draco’s hands shook at just the idea of the one night together. Ugh.

_What are you most afraid of Draco? Pain and humiliation, or being unwanted?_

Harry hadn’t removed his trousers so neither did Draco. What he did do, in one quick movement Draco doubted Harry noticed, was slide Pansy’s dagger into his waistband and hope the heavy metal would stay there without his belt. He didn’t- he wasn’t going to _use_ it obviously, despite Pansy’s absurd riddle, but just having the option near was a comfort. 

“Ready?”

Draco didn’t answer, simply straightening and carefully refusing to meet his husband’s eyes, choosing instead to focus on his chin. 

“Er,” Harry said, “okay then.”

Harry made his way towards the bed, blowing out candles on his way over. Draco, slow to react, felt the binding grow taught and his arm raise involuntarily. Harry paused at the tension and Draco’s shoulders climbed into his ears. Before he could take a step his hand jerked as the binding was pulled and Draco stuttered forward, head jerking up to see how Harry’s hand was grasped around the binding. 

Draco flushed. _Like a dog on a lead._

Harry also blushed. “I…” but Draco was already moving. After all, he had been spurred into action, hadn’t he?

Swallowing his nerves Draco quickly moved towards the bed, gliding past his husband and ignoring the heat coming off the other man’s body. He reached the bed and heard the heavy half-run Harry did to catch up to him. The bed was a four-poster monstrosity with the typical blood-red colouring in both the canopy and the duvet. Draco hesitated, then blanched.

“Um…” he started, then shook his head. White sheets were used on Malfoy wedding nights in order to gather the evidence of consummation, but it had been generations since the last same-sex marriage occurred. Maybe…no one bled when it was two men?

“So, uh,” Harry said, “you can get in first. If you want.”

Draco steeled himself, chin high and back straight. Posture that was immediately undone with the undignified crawl across the duvet to the other side, leaving room for Harry. He didn’t watch the other man get into bed, instead lying stiff and silent, staring up at the canopy unblinking. 

So this was it. 

“We might want to get under the covers.”

Draco shivered, and felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see Harry propped up on an elbow. “See?” he said, completely nonsensical.

Not understanding, Draco said nothing, and the silence stretched between them. Potter stared at him expectantly and Draco felt sweat break out across his brow. Was he supposed to…offer himself? His throat went dry and his hand twitched. That was not at all how this was supposed to go and Draco felt frustration rise in him once again. _Expectations._ When Draco had been a teenage he’d suffered only one (horrific) conversation about keeping himself pure and how on his wedding night he would be expected to lead his new bride in consummation. It had frightened him then, the idea of being in control and have someone rely on him, but at least he could have at least _planned_ something. Or just asked around, maybe even ask his mother. But the people in this kingdom did things differently and Draco couldn’t prepare anything, couldn’t even ask anyone he trusted about the logistics of the ritual. 

Well, there was one person he could ask, not that he trusted him. The only person he could ask.

Swallowing his pride (something he’d grown accustomed to ever since the marriage was proposed), Draco asked, “What happens next?”

Harry made a sound. “We get under the covers?”

Draco nodded seriously. “And then what?”

The duvet rustled next to his ear. Somehow, Draco tensed even more. 

“What are you expecting?” Harry asked, and Draco almost laughed. Expectations again.

“Well,” he said, “I expect you’ll fuck me.”

Draco’s eyes flew wide, not understanding where those words had come from. Harry’s eyes were equally wide, his mouth agape and oh, maybe Draco wanted to shock him. That would be something he would do.

“Um,” Harry said, adjusting on the covers, “do you want to?”

Draco’s lip curled. Did he _want_ Draco to offer himself? Was this all some kind of… kink? Harry should know that this whole thing was an _expectation._ Was he teasing him?

He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t _beg_ for what would happen next.

“No.”

The bed shifted as Harry sat up, creating a looming dark shadow right next to him. Draco unconsciously shuffled away.

“Then why bring it up?”

Draco ground his teeth. Well, in for a knut…

“Are you thick or are you being deliberately cruel?”

The shadow jerked, and Draco flinched.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, his voice obviously meant to be soothing but came out as more hurt, “of those two options, I hope I’m thick.”

Draco’s face twisted up but before he could say anything a hand came down on his. Draco snatched it back. 

“Look,” Harry said, hands raised in surrender, “I don’t know what’s happening. You have to tell me.”

“So you are thick,” Draco spit.

Harry scowled, showing the first bit of anger Draco had seen from him yet. Draco rose up on his elbows, tensed for whatever would happen next.

But nothing happened. His husband just deflated, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, I’m thick. But I’m also fucking exhausted and I don’t know you well enough not to offend you, something you’ve made obvious. So tell me what’s wrong so we can both go to sleep.”

“We can’t go to sleep without having sex.” And that was just a fact. A fact that Harry was ignoring and, in doing so, severely pissing Draco off. 

“Says who?” Harry asked. Dear fucking stars Draco was actually going to kill him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco drolled despite his dry throat, “everyone? Hundreds of years of tradition? My _father_?”

Harry recoiled. “I don’t want to be rude, but that is absolutely barbaric.”

Hysteria crept into Draco’s chest. “I fucking know, Potter!,” he cried, then forcefully lowered his voice. “I mean, it’s an important ritual.”

“Okay,” Harry said peaceably, carefully modulating his voice in a way that made Draco feel like a child, “okay. We’re not doing that. The only tradition we have to honour is sleeping through the night tied together. That’s it, and it’s all we’re doing.”

Draco laughed, but there was no humour in it. “We have to.”

“Okay,” Harry sighed. Draco’s heart flew to his throat, but Harry continued, “okay. We’re talking about this.”

Harry reached over to the bedside table, lighting more candles and bringing colour back to the room. Draco flinched when he turned back around. He looked…extremely tired.

“In my kingdom,” Harry spoke gravely, making Draco feel two feet tall, “there is no tradition that requires sex. Well I mean, yes, there is the _assumption_ that a recently married couple will have sex, but most definitely not in our case.” 

The lapsed into silence, Harry giving Draco the time to absorb his words. 

“I mean,” Harry joked, trying to interject some levity “even if we did have such a tradition how would anyone even know? We could just lie.”

“Blood on the sheets,” Draco replied promptly. Harry turned slightly green so he hurried along, “And I mean, the marriage isn’t valid unless it’s consummated.”

Harry ran a hand over his face. “Not here. We’re already married here. No consummation necessary.”

In all the millions of scenarios Draco had refused to let himself entertain, this was never one of them. 

Ignoring the weakness in his limbs caused by a relief Draco refused to let himself feel, Draco pushed himself up until he was sitting, finally the same height as Harry. “Look,” Draco said, still feeling the press of expectations, “we still have to.”

“Well, I mean,” Harry blushed, and how a man as strong as him could look demure was beyond Draco, “I wouldn’t be averse. If you insisted.”

Alarm flared in Draco and he cursed himself for not taking the out when it was presented, for _arguing_ when he had the perfectly respectable excuse of not honouring his family’s traditions in that they would be in conflict with his new husband’s. Now he would have to…

“But from where I’m sitting,” Harry suddenly said, eyeing him up and down, “I really don’t think you want to.”

Draco scoffed but it came out more as a cry. “I am,” he started, “I mean-” Draco laid back down, stretching himself out on the duvet “-I want to.”

Just then a clang rang out right next to his ear, causing Draco to jump. Harry frowned, picking up a candlestick and leaning over Draco (too close) to search out whatever made the sound. To Draco’s terror, the sound had been Pansy’s knife clattering to the ground, somehow having escaped the confines of his trousers.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, casually returning to his side of the bed, “I’m pretty sure that answers that.”

“I-” Draco couldn’t speak, the ramifications of what just happened thrumming through him. 

“I wasn’t going to _use_ it,” he said at last, finally forcing out some kind of defense.

“No no, it’s okay,” Harry said, scrubbing his eyes, “I think I’m just beginning to see just how much you didn’t want to go through with this.”

Oh fucking stars he’d have to save this somehow. “It wasn’t that!”

“Oh?” Harry asked, but not really. His voice sounded deadened.

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco expressed. “Look, that was the knife my friend gave me, okay? From earlier toady? It was a comfort. Nothing more.”

Harry looked up from behind his hands. “A comfort?”

“Yes, I-” but Draco couldn’t find the words.

Another silence, but this one all the worse considering the leader of the Kingdom he was in was considering whether or not Draco had plotted to murder him. And why shouldn’t he? Draco had been anything but agreeable leading up to this whole thing and now Pansy’s fucking steel had been found stuffed into his trousers. 

“I suppose,” Harry said sadly, “that if you came to bed expecting violence, a knife wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing to bring.”

Draco had nothing to say to that, so he said nothing. Instead he swung a leg over the edge of the mattress and kicked the knife under the bed. “There. It’s gone. No need to worry.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Good.”

Harry shook his head, choosing that moment to fling the covers back and dive into the sheets. Draco followed his lead, taking the silence as a blessing and silently begging whatever forces at work that his new husband and king didn’t have him thrown off the highest turret the first chance he got. Draco deflated, all tension leaving his body. _Oh, the highest turret would be this one, wouldn’t it?_ Draco though deliriously. Maybe Draco could cut out the middle-man and put himself out of his misery as soon as his mother was off. If things continued like this Draco would cause a new war by breakfast.

“Draco?” Harry asked, “If I had gotten…demanding. If I had made you bleed-” Draco’s eyes snapped to Harry’s, the tension in his body returning as quickly as it had left “-would you have used the knife? To defend yourself?”

The question was awful. Would Draco have let Harry bed him? Yes, it was his duty. Would Draco have let Harry brutalize him? Well, there was the fantasy and there was the truth. In the fantasy Draco had Pansy’s knife under the pillow, carefully waiting like Draco had the whole thing planned from the beginning, like he was in control. When Harry displayed any sadistic tendencies that would have maimed Draco for life he would casually pull the blade out, stabbing directly into Harry’s stomach and tearing until Harry stopped moving. The movement would be clinical and neat. Everything done to the precise plan in Draco’s mind. But that was only a fantasy Draco used to help him, to empower him and make him believe he had a choice. In truth, what would Draco have done if Harry had been a bastard unworthy of a Malfoy? He would have frozen in fear and cried through the pain, riding everything out with the idea of seeing his mother in the morning.

“No,” Draco said finally, “I don’t think I would have.”

Too late, he saw the light in Harry’s eyes and how it drained away at his words. For some reason Harry had learned to find the idea of Draco stabbing him endearing. A kind of light amusement and pride at the idea of Draco sticking up for himself against an evil version of him. Too late, Draco realized he should have lied, should have said he’d gut Potter like a pig if he got too handsy. Too late, he realized he’d just lost the first bit of respect he’d ever gained from his new husband.

_I swear to protect you with all the courage I carry in my lungs_ had been Draco’s wedding vow. It was a deliberate choice.

_I have no courage,_ Draco thought, _you’ve sworn yourself to someone who cannot protect you, let alone protect against you._

“Thank you for telling me the truth,” Harry said finally. He cut off any room for a response by blowing out the light, pulling the covers over himself and turning his back to Draco.


End file.
